Knots
by blue-jean-serenades
Summary: Sometimes Dean wonders if he's still got it, the ability to untangle all the knots his brother ties himself in. Oneshot. S6.


**Little oneshot, again. Set during season six. Not sure I like it, but whatever. Enjoy.**

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Sam stares down at the beer in his hands, thinking about how much he hates himself. It's not a new thought; he's hated himself for a long time, through different periods of his life.

The first, or at least the first really _significant_ time, was when Jess died. There's a part of Sam that still loves her, that will always love her, and he will never stop regretting that he didn't do more for her before she died. He knows it's his fault, at least in part, and it makes him feel physically ill when he thinks of the way he ran off with Dean the very night she died. His Stanford friends must have hated him…but Sam loved her. He really did. She was like the sun.

Then there was when he found out the truth about himself, about his powers, and what he might become. He was sickened with himself for being what he was, and what makes him even sicker is that even now, even today, Dean doesn't look at him the same way. (Of course, Sam can't believe Dean even looks at him at all, when Bobby can barely stand to be in the same room as him.)

Then Dean went to Hell, and Sam hated himself for not being able to save his brother from forty years of unimaginable pain. And he knows it's unimaginable—because even the two days he remembers of Hell are worse, so much worse, than anything his mind could possibly dredge up.

Most of all, he hates himself for what he did with Ruby. The personhe became—he was hardly human, Sam thinks, _knows_, and his memories of that time feel like a dream. No—a nightmare. He hates himself for the demon blood, for being so easily lured into Ruby's trap, and for starting this whole mess, the goddamn apocalys.. For the love of God (and Sam doesn't), he can barely think about the way Dean looked at him those days, because something in him dies when he does. Something in his heart just shrivels up, right there, and dies, because if Sam lives for anything in this world it's his brother, and nothing, _nothing _can change what he has done to hurt Dean.

Sam has never forgotten that.

He hates himself for a thousand other things, too many to name, stretching from the very beginning of his childhood to yesterday, when he came up behind the man who is like a father to him and Bobby couldn't look him in the eye. And he hates himself, now, for what he did when he was soulless.

He takes another swig of beer. The little hand on the clock inches past the twelve, and Sam thinks about how awful it is to be up at four a.m.

There's a noise from the stairs behind him.

"Well," the familiar voice says, "don't sleep in, or anything."

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Dean raises an eyebrow when he sees his brother start violently, nearly falling out of his chair.

"Jesus, Dean! You trying to kill me?"

Dean snags a seat next to Sam. His brother passes him another beer without saying anything, and _that_, right there, is it—that's what he's been missing, what made his life so empty in that broken year without Sam. That wordless communication, knowing each other so well it's like breathing. The Impala felt empty without someone sitting shotgun, shoveling down greasy burgers and rolling sarcastic eyes at Dean's Metallica tape collection.

"You manage it well enough on your own," Dean points out. Sam's brooding again, he can tell. Those familiar shoulders are sunken in defeat and introspection. It's a sight that brings with it a flood of memories—Sam's always brooding; his guilt complex is the size of the Empire State Building, and every time he's alone or drunk, it is magnified a hundred times.

Dean studies his brother. More than anything, what he missed the most during no-Sam and soulless-Sam was being a big brother. With a twinge, he wonders if he's still got it—the ability to untie a Sam who's knotted himself into bits.

"So," he begins. "Drinking beer at four in the morning?"

"Don't start with me, Dean." Sam sounds tired; exhausted, in fact. "Not right now."

Dean starts it anyway, pesters, because that's his job and he's lost without it. "Did you sleep?" He doesn't wait for an answer. "Stupid question. Of course you didn't."

"I'm not six. It's not your _job_ to check if I slept or not," his brother says, irritated, only it _is_ Dean's job and getting Sam irritated is the first step to drawing him out.

"Ouch. Someone's pissy. Seriously, dude, you're drinking and it's not even ten o'clock. Hell, it's not even _light _outside yet."

"So what? You drink more than I do. You drink more than _Bobby_." His face screws up a little on the last word, _Bobby_, like it pains him—and suddenly Dean has a feeling he knows why Sam's drinking at four a.m.

"Oh, for crying out loud—not this again, Sam. For the last time, you weren't _you _when you were RoboSam. Get over it already."

"Would _you _get over it if it were you?" Sam fires back, and Dean winces a bit, because no, he wouldn't. But that familiar connection is there again. He understands Sam, he knows he does, and he knows that if he tries hard enough he can unravel this knot.

"That's not important."

Sam scoffs. "Oh, right."

"Look, man—" Dean softens a little bit. "All I'm sayin' is, you don't have to keep this inside of you. It's not healthy. It wasn't _you_, Sam."

"Yes, it was," Sam says bitterly. "It _was _me. All those things, all those people—it was me. It was all me." He shakes his head, pressing his palms into his eyes, and when he pulls his hands away Dean recognizes the familiar expression that comes when he's at his worst. He remembers it, remembers it from the days of Azazel and Ruby and Lucifer, like the image of Sam's defeated face is burned into the backs of his eyelids. A sour taste comes into Dean's mouth.

"_Whoa_." Dean's voice is sharp. He snaps his fingers to get Sam's attention. "Get a grip, Sam. Beating yourself up for something you don't even remember isn't going to solve anything. I need you to keep it together."

"What if it's inside me? What if I'm _like _that?" Sam shudders, sinking inside himself into that pool of misery, and Dean thinks, _Shit._

"Sam. _Sammy_." Dean locks eyes with his brother. "You. Are. Not. _Bad_. All right? You're not bad." Dean shakes his head. "Dude, you're better than I am, you know that? So freakin' _moral_. You gotta stop this." A desperate tone comes into Dean's voice, because more than anything, more than every single thing in this goddamn, screwed-up world, he just wants his brother back. "You just be you, and I'll just be me, and everything will be fine."

But Sam's not listening. "How do you do it?" His voice is low. His eyes are dark and hunted, like an animal's, and when he raises his head to look at Dean, the only thing Dean can see is the apologetic, self-hating look in his eyes. "How can you even look at me?" Dean's not used to this Sam, this Sam who has lost the fire in his gaze. During the day, Dean can almost believe his brother is okay, but then come nights like these and knows Sam isn't dealing. Not like he used to.

And Dean hates it. "You little—" Frustrated, he grabs his brother's chin and jerks his face over. "Hey. See this? This is me looking at you. _I don't blame you_. Now you look into my eyes and tell me that you think I'm not bein' honest here."

Sam does, grudgingly, and Dean opens his eyes as wide as he can and stares right into Sam's face because hell, he doesn't blame Sam. He _won't_ blame Sam, no matter what Bobby says, because he needs his brother and he needs things to be okay. Sam can't deny that.

Sam jerks his chin away and nurses his beer. "That's creepy, man."

Dean chuckles to break the tension, even though it's not funny. "Yeah, you're one to talk." But it doesn't work. Sam hunches even lower over his beer, lets his hair fall into his eyes (it's too long, Dean thinks) and won't look at Dean.

All right. No more coddling. "Dammit Sam, what are you afraid of?"

And even though Dean's words are hard and angry, even though he's glaring at Sam with all his might, even though this _should _be enough to make his brother's head snap up and spit back something caustic about Dean and girls and drinking or whatever, Sam doesn't. He doesn't do anything. He just drinks his beer, like if he keeps on saying nothing, Dean will go away.

Dean doesn't.

After a while, Sam says, "You're not going to let this go, are you?"

"Nope," Dean says, popping the _P _with more cheer than he's actually feeling. "I can do this all morning, Sam."

Sam is silent for another minute or two. Then, quietly, like he's afraid the words will fall like stones into a glassy pool and he won't be able to take them back, Sam says: "You know, you can leave, if you want to."

Dean stares. This is not what he'd expected. "I…what?"

Sam lifts his head the barest inch. "You can leave. You know…go."

Dean can't find words for a moment, and then he sputters, "Go _where?_"

"You know where," Sam says impatiently. "Don't pretend like you don't know what I mean."

Dean waits for a moment, weighs his words carefully. This is a big moment, he can feel it. He has to find the right words, or else the knot he is carefully unraveling will snag and tangle again.

"You mean Lisa and Ben."

Sam says nothing. It's a wordless reply.

"You think I should go…with them. And leave you."

His silence is answer enough. "Not _should_," he hedges, eventually. "Just…you could, you know. If you wanted to."

"But I don't want to." It's clear Sam doesn't believe him. "I don't," Dean insists. "Really." It sounds hollow. Why does it sound hollow?

He caves. "Okay. I did. I still do, a little." Sam's expression shows no surprise. He's won the game, Dean thinks, but the prize is a death sentence. "But Sam—Sammy, look at me. They're not _you_."

Dean keeps going, the words falling out of his mouth. He's being honest, for once in his life, and he just keeps talking because he can't seem to stop himself. "I mean, when you went into the Pit…that was it, man, you know? I wasn't—I wasn't going to see you again. My pain-in-the-ass little brother. And—and I did a pretty shitty job of dealing, to be honest. But with them…I mean, yeah, Lisa is…" He swallows, can't force the words out. "And Ben is an amazing kid—he kind of reminds me of you at that age, too smart for his own damn good…but Sam, I only wanted them because _you_ were gone. You know?"

"You wanted a family," Sam insists, stubborn and not all that sober, either.

Dean starts to say something. Stops.

"Sam," he says, a little oddly, with his voice a shade higher than normal. "I have a family."

His brother looks up and meets Dean's eyes.

"That's not what I mean," Sam says, but Dean thinks he can hear a little bit of hope, deep down, buried somewhere in his chest. The knot is starting to loosen.

"That's what _I _mean."

"But you don't…I mean, after what I did…"

"Sam, what you did wasn't _you_, first of all, and second of all—dude, at one point you were drinking _demon blood_, okay?" Sam winces, but Dean barges on. "Now you look at me and you tell me that isn't just as bad. But guess what?" He raises his voice. "_I'm still here."_

A bear passes. "God knows why," Dean says at length, almost to himself. "But I am."

Sam looks awkward. "I—I screw everything up."

"Yeah, you do," Dean agrees unflinchingly. "You're a screw-up. So am I. Not exactly breaking news, man." But that familiar face is still hesitant, stumbling, and Dean finally snaps, "Sam, do you _want _me to leave?"

"No, no, of course not," Sam says, all in a rush. He's quiet for a second, and then says haltingly, "I just…don't know why you want to stay."

The whole house is still. The only sound is the humming of the ancient refrigerator in the background. Through the dusty glass of the windowpane, Dean can see streaks of orange lighting up the horizon.

He takes another sip of his beer and doesn't answer Sam, not really, because to be honest Dean doesn't know why he's still here, either. He opts for a cop-out instead, but he thinks maybe Sam will realize (smartie that he is) the real answer hidden in Dean's fake one. "Yeah, well. You and me both." He pauses for a moment. Then: "Bitch."

"Jerk," Sam says automatically, without really even thinking about it, and for the briefest moment, Dean thinks he can see some of the old Sam in his brother's eyes. Then silence stretches between them, somber and hushed in the faded-denim light of early morning. Like cracks in the pavement, Dean can feel twinges of that old comfort he and Sam used to share.

It's going to take a while, but Dean believes it's possible. He has to believe; it's the only thing keeping him going, the only barrier between him and that black void of despair. It might not be for weeks, months, a year—but it will happen.

Sam will come back to him.

**FIN.**


End file.
